We have a word for the love of wisdom and it is “philosophy.” But only the unwise love wisdom, for the source of wisdom is not outside of you. Wisdom becomes knowledge, becomes an externally communicated mental construct, for those not emanating wisdom. Wisdom becomes an it, a something you collect and marvel over, not action through you, as your core.
Like wisdom, Love is not that which you seek and cherish. Love: that huge, tiny word the lovers of wisdom know nothing about. They cannot. Love is not to have and to hold.
This stripping away of false notions and definitions of Love is painful for those who have spent their lives in a pretense, like coffee “lovers” inhaling deeply through the nose the aroma of their first morning cup. The anticipation through repetition, that oogly nostalgia feeling in the tummy and the heart, which come before the act of inhaling—and then the act itself—they all create this sense of joyous satisfaction. Then we exhale and feel good and sip away, daily routine started.
There is nothing wrong with that, mind you. But it isn’t Love. It is feeling through anticipation from repetition. It’s mechanical. We truly are the sentient robots we strive to invent, aren’t we?
When we do invent them, will we look at them and see ourselves and say, “I am not enough.” Will that one and final moment of honesty bring us headfirst into the true singularity? Not the mixing of man and machine, but oneness-self in Being, the Love and wisdom-as-action that we’ve been holding back to triumphantly claim I am this whole time, like it means something, everything?
When we endow the robots with thought, will we, in finally witnessing our irrelevance, reflexively abandon thought ourselves? Our irrelevance that was there all along, waiting to be exposed, until we unconsciously and compulsively built our way to it?
Will we then finally know ourselves as Love and wisdom, not people who love wisdom?